


the path i walk leaves no survivors

by ardentiia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Assassin AU, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, F/M, Forbidden Love, Mentioned Edelgard's family, Mentioned Miklan (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Sylvain Jose Gautier's Father, Sylvain struggles with the concept of actually falling in love, TWSITD is an assassin guild, and I am here for it, might continue this AU because it has a lot of lore I want to go further into, oooo spicy right, the dynamic of falling in love with the person you're supposed to kill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 01:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentiia/pseuds/ardentiia
Summary: He can feel the gazes of the other nobles on them, but he’s more concerned about the fast-approaching midnight, the moon ticking higher and higher in the sky every time he looks outside. More concerned about the lance of bone sheathed along his back, craving death with every step.More concerned about Edelgard, her hand on his shoulder, reassuring and warm and grounding.---Written for the Lost Ballroom of Gold zine!
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: A Lost Ballroom of Gold





	the path i walk leaves no survivors

_The Emperor of Adrestia must be eliminated._ _You know what to do._

The figure bows low to the ground, a pure white hood sheathing his face from view. When he straightens, only the sharp, feral glint of his grin is visible in the darkness surrounding the platform.

“It would be my honor.”

* * *

The moon is a sliver in the sky, dripping only the barest traces of light onto the rooftops. It pools over his shoulders, sliding down his cloak in ripples and waves. Just the barest smidge of shadow against the night, he sits, unafraid, legs dangling over the edge of the tallest castle turret. 

Far below, the festivities are just starting. The faintest strains of music drift through the air, accompanying the golden beams streaming through the tall stained glass windows. If this were any other job, he could swing straight through those pretty little designs, shattering their fragile beauty as he slits his target’s throat in mere seconds. Or perhaps he’d dip a sleeping draught into their drinks, posing as a simple waiter before striking. The possibilities are endless, but tonight will require something different.

Smiling slightly to himself, he twists his wrist, idly spinning the giant lance in his hand as if it were a toy. It contracts, shrinking down to the size of a quill, small enough that he can pocket it easily. He’ll need it later, but first, he has somewhere to be.

He rises. Without a sound, he steps off the tower, leaping from wall to wall until he lands in a crouch upon the courtyard stones. The doors loom tall, inviting him with open arms into the lair of the beast. Chin high, he goes willingly, stepping into the room with practiced confidence.

Inside the ballroom, eyes flit to him, conversations pausing as he passes. He can feel them sizing him up, more than one watchful eagle attempting to pick apart his insides with a simple glare. But he keeps his eyes straight ahead as he heads for the far wall, leaning against the stone pillar in a secluded corner. 

It isn’t long before someone appears next to him in a swish of curves and ruffles. Dressed in deep maroons, delicate flowers wind their way up from the hem of her dress to twist around her waist. Wine red gloves cover her hands from elbow to fingertips, and a black mask conceals her face, but he’d be able to recognize that haughty look anywhere.

“Monica,” he says. “I’m blessed by your presence.”

She levels a flat glare at him. “Chickening out, _Sylvain_?” she mocks.

“Aww, you’re worried about me?” 

Monica giggles. There’s nothing light about the murderous glint in her eyes. “As if!”

She leans in. “When you fail, make sure to come back so I can torture you to death.” Her whisper barely grazes the shell of his ear. “It’d be a shame if the Emperor had his way with you before me.”

Sylvain gasps as if she’d told him a particularly juicy piece of gossip, but his eyes don’t look away from her for a second. “I’m wounded by your words!”

“Your trail of broken hearts says otherwise.” She pulls away and sneers. “Where’s your newest toy tonight?”

“She’s here.” His grin sharpens. “And don’t worry, I’ll kill the Emperor. My only regret is that you won’t be around to see my victory.”

Monica pushes herself off the wall. In the lining of her corset, he can see the sharp edge of thin knives, matching the deadly piece twisting up her hair. Not as flashy as the three tentacles she usually wields, but he knows she would gut him with those tiny slivers of metal in an instant. Perhaps at the same time he’d impale her upon the Lance of Ruin. Death is a gift in this world, after all, and he is anything but selfish.

“Thales is expecting you. Don’t be late.”

“When have I ever?”

She doesn’t bother to answer, instead choosing to disappear into the crowd without a backwards glance. He won’t be seeing her again within the next few days, at the very least. She has her own jobs to do.

Sylvain turns his attention back to the room. This is the place he works best, in the hustle and bustle of people in the upper echelons of society, preening themselves as they look down upon everyone else. Born and raised in it, more than anyone else in his line of work, he knows the ins and outs of the rich and privileged. Knows the stink of it too, the stagnant air of wealth and pride.

“Do you think we’ll get to see the Emperor tonight?” A man asks his partner as they pass Sylvain. “I’ve always been curious to see what he looks like.”

His partner laughs. “I doubt it. He’s sick again, it seems, and doctors refuse to let him leave his chambers.” He leans in, whispering conversationally, “I hear he’s a Crest experiment gone wrong, and now, his whole body is disfigured. Imagine that ruling our empire!”

They part in peals of laughter, ignoring Sylvain leaning against the pillar. He’d heard several similar conversations during his time in Adrestia, nobles gunning for the throne and spreading rumors about this mysterious “ailment” inflicted upon the ruler. The masquerade ball held tonight is in honor of the newly crowned Emperor of Adrestia, but he wouldn’t be showing. 

No matter. He’s going to die anyway.

“Are you going to dance?”

A woman approaches Sylvain, her hair the color of freshly fallen snow. She’s dressed in a fairly simple outfit compared to the ornate ballgowns of the other nobles, but no less beautiful. Her sleek red dress brushes the floor. Her white gloves are edged in lace, a darker tint than her dress. A mask reminiscent of an eagle adorns her face, swooping feathers in a shade of pearl. 

“Perhaps.” He flashes a grin. “Would you honor me with one if I asked?”

Her eyebrow rises. “Are you asking?”

He chuckles. “I can never pass up the opportunity to invite a beautiful woman to dance.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders. “C’mon, El, tonight’s a night of celebration! The Emperor’s been crowned, Adrestia is at peace, and I,” he winks, “get to be with you.”

She stiffens and frowns slightly at that, a movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sylvain. He’d met her only a few months ago, but he had plenty of time to pick up on her tells. Time and time again, she’d been touchy about anything related to the Emperor. 

_What are you hiding, Edelgard von Hresvelg?_ he thinks, watching her. She knows something, something that could ruin the Emperor. And he intends to find out.

Most people, of course, prefer the traditional kills—in and out, no fancy convolutions needed. But Sylvain, on the other hand, offers something else—the ability to build and manipulate relationships, only to break them without mercy. 

This is his true secret weapon, and the only one he’ll need tonight.

“Your mask is beautiful,” she comments, breaking his train of thought. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He runs his fingers over it consciously. The mask glints in the chandelier light, flecks of rainbow color dancing across smooth bronze. It’s made completely out of metal, molded so perfectly to the contours of his face that it’s become more familiar to him than his own skin. The others in the room wear flimsy pieces of cloth, mere decorations, but his is special. A secret, a birthright, a debt paid in blood. 

Sometimes, at night, he still hears the screams. The promises of revenge sworn as he took what was his all those years ago. The lance that pulses with memory and easy familiarity each time he picks it up, rejoicing in the ruthless violence. The mask that became his own, to be worn forever unto death.

Not that he’d ever tell her.

He blinks rapidly, shoving the memories to the side. Giving her a small smile, he shrugs casually. 

“It’s nothing special compared to yours,” he says, taking her hand. “So, how about that dance?”

* * *

She really is an amazing dancer.

They twirl effortlessly around the dance floor, her steps perfectly matching his. The music belies their movements, as if they are the ones leading the song, the musicians subject to their will. He can feel the gazes of the other nobles on them, but he’s more concerned about the fast-approaching midnight, the moon ticking higher and higher in the sky every time he looks outside. More concerned about the lance of bone sheathed along his back, craving death with every step. 

More concerned about Edelgard, her hand on his shoulder, reassuring and warm and grounding.

He’s not _nervous_ . The fluttering in his heart is different, a skip where steady beats should be, a harsh pounding with every glimpse of her soft smile. It’s distracting, a nuisance on the eve of his final mission. He’d been keeping his distance ever since he met her with the usual empty compliments and flirtatious winks. He plied her heart while keeping his own locked up in a small cage. _So why is it different this time?_

“...family?”

“Sorry?” Sylvain gives her a sheepish smile, tearing his gaze away from the stained glass windows.

Her eyes crinkle with worry, but she doesn’t comment. “Do you ever think about your family?” she asks again.

Sylvain freezes, nearly tripping over her in his haste to make up the rhythm. Another mistake, more than usual. He inwardly curses his sloppiness. “Not much, why?”

“You never talk about them,” she says.

He wants to laugh. He doesn’t talk about anything with her, besides the most trivial things. Everything personal, everything past—all off limits. For good reason, of course. 

His heart twists again, a deep longing rising suddenly in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Well, they’re all dead, so there’s not much to say,” Sylvain says quickly before the wave drowns him in this strange feeling. 

She lowers her gaze. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me to ask.”

“It’s alright.” He squeezes her hand gently. “You’re…”

He halts. Any more said would be dangerous to the mission. _Distance, Sylvain_ . _Don’t get attached. Don’t lose sight of the goal._

She stops moving, forcing him to pause too. Around them, couples continue dancing, laughter and chatter melding with silvery strains of a soothing melody. He can’t help but feel they’re in a small bubble of peace, just for a moment in the center of the floor where nobody can reach them. Not Monica, not Thales, not the Emperor. Just the two of them.

“I don’t have any family either.” Her whisper is so quiet, meant only for him. “I just...I wanted you to know that.”

He’d known already, of course. The lack of company, of siblings, of parents that would be well-wishers and surprise visitors and guests. Independent because she had to be, not because she chose this life of loneliness. So unlike him, a person who embraced the solitude, the absence of connections that would only hold him back. But he hadn’t expected her to admit it to him, hadn’t factored in that confession to his plan. Hadn’t thought about the rawness of her gaze, the mirror that’s just a touch from shattering.

There are no words that he can say, no words to take back the past pain that lingers in her eyes. The past is unsteady ground, and he can feel himself sinking, deep into his own memories left behind when he chose to walk away with the mask. He chose the mask to leave his entire family, his life, behind in the graveyard of his dreams.

Now, he has another choice.

But it’s a choice he cannot make.

He wraps his arms around her, and she folds into his embrace as if waiting for the chance. He knows, he _knows_ he’ll be punished for this later. But he can’t stop himself, in too deep to bear. In too deep to think about the consequences of his actions, about what will come later when his mission leaves no one to be spared.

“I’ll be your new family,” he says softly in her ear, “if you will have me.”

She starts crying in earnest then, shoulders trembling from having to hold the weight of her past for so long. She buries her face in his chest, and at that moment, Sylvain is glad he can’t see her eyes, piercing and trusting and earnest. 

Because if she saw him, she would see who he really is. 

And he doesn’t know if he has the strength to kill her for finding out the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this AU and I hope you enjoyed reading it! There's so much more I want to go into, especially what will happen when Sylvain finds out Edelgard's the "Emperor" he's supposed to kill... :0 maybe when I have time I'll write a prequel or sequel...
> 
> Follow me on Twitter if you like Sylvain, Edelgard, Edelvain, FE3H...I like talking to people :D  
> [@ardentiia](https://twitter.com/ardentiia)


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